The Abyss and the Vast Plain
The Yeonseung Tournament. The Women's Kuksu title match — along with the Women's Ki-seong title, one of the two premier women's tournaments in the country.
For some of the female professionals, simply making it to the main draw is a career-defining achievement. In prize money and prestige it falls somewhat short of the Haihe Cup, but it remains a heavyweight event where the very top female players of the nation face off against one another.
Because of my looks and my age, I'd been underestimated at every tournament I ever entered. Now, as the reigning holder of an international women's title, things are different. No one can afford to take me lightly anymore. The advantage I once enjoyed thanks to a young face is gone.
"..."
I sat before the board, alternating black and white stones by myself.
Shin Chang-mo versus Ryu Seoa — the matchup I had played over and over again, trying to change my style of play. And Ryu Seoa's Go had improved enormously. We were at the point now where if I played ten games, she'd take two of them.
Repeated real-match experience, and the exchange of ideas with my first disciple. Countless sessions of meditation and replay at school. Periodic exercise to sharpen my concentration and stamina. At some point, Go alone had come to dominate my daily life.
Since I'd committed to this with absolute resolve, burning with passion was only natural. And yet, an ineradicable anxiety gnawed at me.
Two tournaments this month: the Women's Kuksu, and the Jangguzhang Cup World Women's Go Championship.
For the Women's Kuksu, I had received an invitation seed and advanced straight to the main draw. The Jangguzhang Cup — a national team tournament between Korea, China, and Japan — had held its qualifiers over four days last week, and I had been selected as one of the final five.
Prestigious events, both of them. But in the end, they were both women's competitions, barred to male professionals. No matter how many more titles I racked up in rookie tournaments and women's circuits, I could never surpass the Shin Chang-mo of the past.
Eventually, I would have to produce results in the open tournaments — and at my current strength, I fell hopelessly short.
Rushing things never did anyone any good. But could a half-baked female pro — an anomaly bordering on cheating, hardly more than the ghost of the past — really afford to rest on achievements like these?
"Seoa, sweetheart. Why don't you take a little break?"
Warm hands wrapped around my neck from behind. The scratch of a stubbled chin brushed against my shoulder.
"All right. I'll rest for a bit."
My father had been discharged after finishing his first round of chemotherapy. He'd grown thin and frail, but now that he was home after so long, he seemed genuinely happy.
"Daddy tried to learn go-chess, you know — baduk, I mean. Turns out it's a fair bit harder than chess. Would my resident pro be willing to teach me the basics while she takes her break?"
He asked in English, with a singsong lilt.
He spoke that mellow Korean-accented English. The old Shin Chang-mo — the one who would bolt at the sight of a Westerner trying to strike up conversation — would have panicked. But having been steeped in English from childhood thanks to my father, I'd become fairly fluent myself, almost like a native speaker.
Of course, I hadn't traveled to any English-speaking countries yet, so chatting with my father was about the extent of it. Still, I was certain the day would come when it proved useful.
"Of course I will!"
I laid out a few stones and began with the fundamentals of life and death. Like a curious child, my father craned his neck forward and listened intently to every word.
Yes. It didn't matter whether it was a women's tournament or a rookie competition. I'd returned to Go partly to feed my own ambition, yes — but nominally, it was to cover my father's treatment costs and give my family a stable life.
For now, let me focus on delivering results. Whatever results were within reach.
Women's Kuksu, Round of 16.
The women's supernova. Winner of the Haihe Cup. Ryu Seoa, 2-dan.
Youngest ever. Fastest ever. First ever. A mixed-race girl with striking foreign features, rewriting record after record.
"Whew..."
Yu Dasom, 1-dan, let out a long, deep breath.
The main draw of a major tournament — barely reached after turning professional. A maiden voyage onto the boundless open sea. But the moment she'd left the harbor, she had run straight into an enormous reef.
Ever since the pairings were announced — no, even before that — she had picked apart Ryu Seoa's games move by move.
Confusion. Disorder.
To anyone who had studied Go deeply, Ryu Seoa's play was an unpleasant thing to watch. It was brimming with moves that violated every established order. Unpredictable — and therefore a source of discomfort and even pain for those trying to read her games.
And yet, there was a single exception.
Game one of the Haihe Cup final.
For a while, a conspiracy theory had sprung up around that one game: that Ryu Seoa 2-dan was the true owner of the account tlsckdah1021.
The Go of tlsckdah1021 was the exact opposite of Ryu Seoa's. The summit of order and discipline.
tlsckdah1021 hadn't become famous merely because of the legend of his unbeaten streak. It was because his Go embodied something everyone aspired to. Lucid and intuitive. Predictable, yet polished to an artisan's perfection — move sequences of immaculate elegance. A single shaft of brilliant light cast into the uncertain world of Go. There were countless players who refreshed the online Go lobby day after day just to bask in that light for even a moment.
And yet, in game one of the final, Ryu Seoa — a wild revolutionary in her own games — had "imitated" the Go of tlsckdah1021, the very master of order.
The first fifty moves had been abysmal, clumsy brawling. But what unfolded after that was a textbook of pure, classical perfection. A flawless reproduction of tlsckdah1021.
No one knew how such a thing was possible. But one thing was certain: Ryu Seoa's disorder did not spring from a child's ignorance or whimsy. It rested on superb fundamentals and a complete command of joseki.
Why, having mastered the orthodox path, did she still chase the reckless one? No one could say. But a single fact remained undeniable.
Go is not played alone. It is played by two.
Anyone facing her had to be dragged, helpless and unwilling, into her absurd adventures.
A battlefield at the bottom of an abyss, where nothing was certain. It was frightening. Terrifying. It made you vulnerable.
If her opponent were in the same position, at least they'd share the misery. But Ryu Seoa 2-dan was, metaphorically speaking, a monster submerged deep in that very abyss. Even now, no one could begin to guess how enormous her silhouette truly was, down there in the dark.
A suffocating feeling.
"Haaah..."
Yu Dasom replayed tlsckdah1021's games in her mind as she stretched out her stiff, leaden body.
Unlike Ryu Seoa's murky, airless play, tlsckdah1021's Go left you feeling refreshed — as if gazing down from a height onto a vast, open plain. Where the dark forest was full of unseen predators waiting to pounce, the boundless plain offered stability and ease.
Someday, she dreamed, she too would play Go that refined. That polished.
It was a level of mastery that ordinary effort would never reach. But the mere fact that such a level existed made her burn hotter. Painful as it was, it meant that if she kept working, kept grinding — someday, maybe, she could stand there too.
Before she knew it, game time had arrived.
The main-draw players rose from their seats one by one, loosening up.
All eight first-round matches of the Round of 16 would begin simultaneously.
From a distance, she could see her — a small blonde girl, meditating with a composure far beyond her years.
Unlike Yu Dasom, who had nothing to her name, that girl had already conquered the world of women's Go once. But this was an opportunity seized with difficulty, against the odds.
And she had no intention of letting it go easily.